AN: Takes place after the 'Lost Lenore' arc. Let's not mention this to him, shall we?
The Puppeteer Patient 120402-At one point, he slapped Batman's ass. Come to think of it, that comic could be used in a psychiatry classroom.
Just-Me-and-My-Brain-I can see that causing a phobia. Worst we ever had were cannibalistic fish, and that was more 'go out there in the morning and find only two fish in the tank'.
He says he doesn't remember. She doesn't believe him.
Well, she does, sort of. But only sort of. The fact remains that he'll wake, coughing and barely able to breathe, but still manage to choke out her name and a soft, "Please don't go."
She makes him go to the doctor when the coughing doesn't stop. He comes back with bloody hands and the diagnosis of pneumonia.
Keeping him in bed is hard. It's never been easy, but now it's damn near impossible. (Shame physical activity sets him coughing, that would keep him down well enough.) Oh, sure, he'll say he can't sleep, or that he's sick of lying down all day, or that he's just bored to death, but he still won't let her out of his sight for longer than strictly necessary.
She drugs his tea (her mother would be appalled) twice. Despite the fact that he's done the same thing, he is not amused.
She's starting to worry about him. They've both had nightmares, and they've both had some bad scares. So what about this one is so terrible? Fever? That's gone down, but…
"You ought to be lying down." That's half of what she says these days. It's because he suffers stubborn-man-itis. "If you get me sick, I expect nothing less than a genie."
"Sorry, Kitty." That's half of what he says these days, and she wishes he wouldn't. "Couldn't sleep."
Rubbish.
"Yeah, yeah. I know." She pushes a glass of limeade over to him. "Drink that. It's not drugged, I promise."
He takes a sip and promptly chokes on it.
"At least sit down."
He drops into the chair, clutching the glass. She prods the chicken noodle (grocery store, with a bit of help because they're skimpy with the carrots) and settles down on the arm.
"How're you feeling?"
"Lousy." He rests his head against her ribcage. "Kill me now."
"Sorry, can't." She leans over to take a sip of his limeade. If she's going to get sick, it's too late now. "You should be sleeping."
"Mm."
He hasn't even bothered with his glasses. She's willing to bet he'll pass out down here, given the opportunity.
"Jonathan…" He says nothing, just presses against her side like a puppy. "You haven't been yourself the last few weeks."
"Sorry."
"Don't be sorry, just tell me what's going on."
"Sick."
"It's not just sick, and you know it. Come on, talk to me."
"I'm just sick, it's nothing…"
"Jonathan Crane." He stops. "I know you well enough to know it's something else. Now spill. Is it that weird dream of yours?"
Nod, nod.
Called it!
"Why don't you tell me what you do remember?"
He coughs, takes another sip, and makes himself a little more comfortable. She slides down to his lap instead. He's still very warm. Maybe she can coax him into a cool shower later…
"You were dead."
"I know that part."
"No. You were…you fell. Off a roof."
Ohh.
That certainly explains the sudden clinginess. That should wear off, then. She's been wondering if he'd gotten a freak cancer diagnosis or something.
"I didn't fall off a roof." she reminds him. "Well, that one time, but that doesn't count. Farthest I've ever fallen otherwise is off a stepladder."
And, now that she thinks about it, she took a nasty spill a few days before he got sick. Knocked her out for a minute or two. She'd come to with him kneeling by her side, two steps from a panic attack. That had worn off fairly quickly, once he'd determined she didn't have a concussion, but…
"I know. It's irrational, I know it is."
He's leaving something out, she can tell.
"What else happened?"
He pauses for a second too long before saying, "I don't remember."
"Yes, you do."
He coughs and she sits up a bit. Maybe she shouldn't press him, should just force him to go to bed…
"I don't." He insists. "M'sorry, Kitty, I just don't. Honest."
She gets up, pretends not to notice his look of alarm.
"Come on. Up you get, you need to be lying down."
"But I…"
"Come on."
She tucks him in bed and flops down beside him. The soup is on low, it'll be fine unattended for a little while.
"You're warm."
He's shaking, that's all. She hugs him.
"Go to sleep."
He doesn't say anything else and when she takes a look at him later, he's out. Finally. She should go back downstairs, get some things done, but…
It can wait. For a little while, at least.
She stays for about half an hour before going back down to see about the soup. It hasn't caught fire or anything horrible. She considers that a success.
There's something else, and she's starting to wonder if she really wants to know. He's never been this reticent about anything. Ever.
Weird.
"Kitty?"
Damn. She'd hoped for more than half an hour.
"What are you doing up?"
He shrugs and drops into the chair.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Jonathan…" She doesn't mean to be cross with him, but this is ridiculous. She's not going to just randomly vanish or anything silly. "What is going on?"
"Don't be mad, m'sorry…"
Great, now she's guilty. This is all very unfair.
"I'm not mad, love." She hugs him. "Just confused, that's all. You're normally not like this. I'm not dead. I'm not even sick or anything, you know that."
"Not just that." he mumbles. "My fault."
"Just a dream." she soothes. "And I doubt it was your fault, for heaven's sake…"
"N-no." He swallows hard. "No, it was my fault, I let you go, Kitty, Jesus…"
And the dam breaks.
Not counting toxin episodes-and once when he was very, very sick-she's seen him cry twice, and both of those times were in college. Today marks the third time.
"Shh, shh." She rubs his shoulders and wonders if he'll forgive her for sedating him. "Just a bad dream, that's all. You're sick and exhausted, love, that's not a recipe for puppies and rainbows."
"Y-you said…"
"I didn't say anything, because it wasn't me." His fever isn't that high…just stress, that's all. Maybe he had been exposed, a little-cracked vial or something. It's happened before. "It's all right, everything's all right. Deep breaths, now, come on."
He tries, but that finally sets him coughing. She goes to pull back and he shakes his head and whispers, "Please don't go."
"I'm just getting you a glass of water." she says. "I'll be in your line of sight the entire time, I promise."
He watches her prod the soup and fill a glass as though she'll disappear if he doesn't.
"Here. Drink this down." He takes a sip, pauses, and drains the glass. Good.
He remains silent, his eyes closed and his breathing ragged. He looks a fright, but he's gotten himself mostly under control. She'd love for him to go back to bed, but she hates to send him up there now.
"Feeling better?"
"Mm." His voice is thick. "No."
She refills the water glass and drops a handful of napkins in his lap.
"Might help."
"Sorry, I don't know what…"
"Shh." She kisses the top of his head. "It's all right. You believe me, yeah?"
"Mm-hm."
"Good. Now go on, up to bed."
"No, please…"
"I'll be right behind you with a bowl of soup. Go on, now."
He lingers for a minute until she flicks the towel at him-for some semblance of normalcy more than anything. That gets him going, but she can hear him coughing on the way up. NyQuil…they have NyQuil, don't they? She's pretty sure they're not out-she made a grocery run when she drugged him last time-but…
Later. She'll worry later.
Soup, crackers, orange juice…all good.
He's gotten himself cleaned up, but he's not what she would call 'in bed'. More like 'still standing, pretending to look at the bookshelf but not really looking'.
"Bed. Now."
"I was looking for a book…"
"Bed."
He makes himself comfortable and takes the soup from her.
"Thank you." She drops down beside him and nabs a cracker. "Congratulations on not blowing it up."
There's the Jonathan she knows. Much better.
"Any idiot can make soup." she grumbles. "You poke it every so often, that's all." She nabs another cracker and gets up. "I'm gonna grab a shower. Don't choke, what'll I put in your obituary?"
That gets a laugh out of him, weak and shaky though it is, and he sinks back against the pillows. Good. If she's really lucky, he'll pass out before she gets back.
She doubts it, but a girl can dream.
He's mostly out when she's through, one thin hand resting on the remote.
"You take your pills?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Yes, yes. I'm sure."
She checks anyway-he hates these horse pills, always tries to insist that he's feeling better and doesn't need them. Rubbish. That's how plagues start.
They do indeed have NyQuil and she sets that down within reach.
"I'm going to get the lights. Take that and get ready for bed."
"I've been in bed."
"And you've got pneumonia."
He has no counter-argument, but he does try to cheat his way out of the NyQuil with sad eyes and a soft voice.
"C'mon, Kitty, I don't really need it…"
"Now."
He takes it, grimaces, and gets up to brush his teeth. She gets in bed.
Once the lights are out and she's snuggled up against him with his arms around her, she lets herself relax.
"Kitty?"
"Mm?"
"You're not…I know it's ridiculous, but…"
"I'm here, love. Go to sleep."
He sighs and she feels him relax.
"M'kay. Night."
"Night."
The NyQuil takes him out fairly quickly and she hopes that-just once-he won't dream.
Just for tonight, at least.
THE END